Death Before Facebook (19 page)

She didn’t. “Well, good. When he gets here, he’ll have some money.”

“Hey. Whose side are you on?”

“He’ll be here. The guy’s crazy about you.”

Skip didn’t answer. If a guy was crazy about you, he didn’t get your hopes up and then disappoint you. Did he? But she didn’t feel like arguing. “You’re the shrink.”

“I mean it you know. This guy is a gem. Things happen with people. Maybe he can’t move here now, and that’s just bad timing—nothing to do with his level of commitment. You’re thinking about that, aren’t you? I know you.”

Skip nodded.

“Give it some time, girl. You’re disappointed and therefore you’re pissed and I don’t blame you—I would be too. But do me a favor, okay? Count to ten. Give things time to shake down.”

Skip was pissed and not only at Steve.
Little Miss Shrinky-Poo
, she thought. How dare she? The way she runs her life.

Cindy Lou caught her look. “Oh, chill out—the music’ll do you good.”

It was true. She knew it, and when they walked into The Blue Guitar, one of the hot new spots that were popping up like weeds in the warehouse district, she was like a teenager again—a person who hadn’t yet settled on murder as a career.

Jeez. Think about it. Murder as a career. Cindy Lou’s right, it takes more out of me than I think.

In her younger days (which weren’t all that far away) she’d spent a lot of time in joints like this, swigging illegal Dixie and listening to the blues, which, she believed, had been invented just for her. Nothing else so perfectly described her miserable little life; and nothing could make her feel so alive.

She wished Sheila were old enough for this.

Cindy Lou said, “Let’s get a couple of Abitas and grab those spots over there.”

It was the kind of place where you stood, preferably as close to the stage as possible.

“Make mine a Dixie.”

“Hey, good-lookin’.”

Skip felt herself grabbed from behind. A strange black man had his arm around her.

She was tensing up, about to give him the shove he deserved when something rang a bell. “Tyrone?”

“Ms. Skip? Officer Skip?”

“I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

“How’m I going to forget you? There we are playing the JazzFest, biggest crowd we ever had, we’re trying to figure out what we did right, and you come onstage tryin’ to arrest us all.”

She laughed. That hadn’t been what happened at all, but she was pleased to be remembered.

“Are you talking to the famous Tyrone Boucree?” Cindy Lou had gotten the beers and now handed one to Skip. She turned her full wattage on him.

“Cindy Lou Wootten, Tyrone Boucree.”

“Buy you a beer?” said Cindy Lou.

“Well, no, I think Skip owes me one after nearly scaring me to death at JazzFest. In fact, I think she ought to buy the whole band a round.”

“I would, but half of them are underage.”

“I’ll have a Dixie,” he said.

Skip turned to get his beer, knowing perfectly well he just wanted some time to stare at Cindy Lou.

When she came back, he said, “Did y’all come to see us?”

“Uh-uh. We thought the Nevilles were here.”

“When our lead singer grows up a little, we’re going to give them a run for their money. Right now, it’s kind of hard, playing in places where they serve alcohol.” Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Uh-oh, I gotta go do it. Y’all stick around. I’ll buy you a beer.” He went off toward stardom.

“Cindy Lou, he’s married, and not only that, he’s Joel Boucree’s father and Joel’s Melody’s best friend.”

Melody was a kid from another case, a kid toward whom Skip felt extremely protective.

“You don’t get it about me. When I say I have bad taste in men, I mean abysmal. Tyrone Boucree is preceded by his reputation; the nicest guy in town, right? I think New Orleans Magazine singled him out.” She wrinkled up her nose.

“Was that the problem with the Saint?”

“God, no.” She shrugged. “Maybe shrinking other people’s taking its toll. I’m just kind of tired of the game, that’s all.”

“Have you got a radio or anything? I’ve got to get a weather report.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think hell just froze over.”

Cindy Lou turned slightly away, to hide her smile, Skip saw, and the band started up. The two women edged closer to the stage. For the next hour and a half, Skip was in a trance, moving with the music, part of the human motion machine that now filled the club, forever swelling, bouncing and bobbing, jukin’ and jivin’, in a collective world of its own.

Cindy Lou was right. She did feel better.

“That was fabulous.”

“Let’s go outside.”

The Blue Guitar boasted a courtyard, a place where you could sit and talk and cool off. Even in November, it felt good.

“Omigod, look over there.” Skip pointed at the bar.

“What?”

“Melody. Buying a beer.”

“She’s only seventeen, huh?”

“Not even that—unless she didn’t invite me to her birthday party.”

“So what are you going to do? Bust her?”

“I’ve got to do something.” She started walking. “Melody!” The girl tried to hide her beer. “Haven’t you heard? There’s cops in here.”

Melody gave her a wan smile. “Hey, Skip.”

“Come on. Let’s have a hug.”

She got one, a warm one, except for the cold bottle that pressed against her back.

“Haven’t seen you since…”

“July.”

Skip had taken her a small gift. She wanted to stay in touch, but wasn’t sure how to do it. “Hey, do you babysit?”

“Not much. Why?”

“I’ve got kids now.” She told her about Jimmy Dee and his two wards.

“Wow, weird. Can I meet them?”

“Sure. I’ll call you. I’ve got to tell you something, though. You’re breaking the law.”

Melody flushed.

“Who’re you here with?”

“Some friends from school.”

“You’re all breaking the law.”

“We have to leave, huh?”

“It’s a school night, anyway.”

“Can’t I stay a minute? Just to introduce my friends to the guys?” The Boucrees.

“Honey, I’m a police officer. What if you said, ‘Can’t I just rob that old guy over there?’ ”

“It’s not the same thing.” She started to pout.

Skip was miserable. Here was a kid she was crazy about, about to impress her friends by knowing the Boucrees, and instead she was getting them thrown out of the club. Skip truly felt for her. But before she could say a word, a genie appeared out of nowhere—a coffee-colored one, tall and reedy, about thirty or thirty-two, with close-cropped hair and a pair of eyes that didn’t miss a thing. But still, they were soft, kind eyes; eyes that could take a joke and give one back. She’d noticed him onstage and been impressed.

“Hey, Melody. I’m s’posed to be lookin’ for this big good-lookin’ tall woman. Wouldn’t be this one, would it?”

Skip liked his looks, his wiry energy, but she hated lines; obvious, unimaginative lines, at any rate. “Not unless you’re giving away money,” she snapped.

“Is your name Skip? You’re supposed to be with a bourbon and Diet Coke.”

“I beg your pardon?’

“A skinny little black bitch. ’Scuse my French; I used to be a bartender.” As if that cleared it up.

He was looking at Skip now, and his expression had changed. “I mean, I didn’t mean your friend’s a bitch. It’s just a… you know… bartender humor.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t decide whether to continue being outraged or let it go.

“Listen, Tyrone sent me. He wants to get out of here and go somewhere quiet. Y’all up for it?”

“Where’s Tyrone?’ asked Melody. “Couldn’t I just say hi to him?” Ostensibly, she spoke to the genie, but she looked at Skip beseechingly. The look said, “I’m going to die right now if you embarrass me in front of this cool dude.”

Skip nodded. What was another minute going to hurt? But she also said, “Don’t forget to give Cindy Lou her beer.”

Despite all her efforts to be cool, the genie said, “That somebody else’s beer? I was just gonna read you the riot act, child. Tyrone’s packing up in the back. Say your name, they’ll let you in.”

Melody went off to find her friends.

“I used to do that,” said Skip.

“What?”

“All that teenager stuff. Drink; stay out too late; lie to my parents.”

“Whoa. Didn’t we all.”

“You must be a Boucree.”

“Oh, didn’t I say? I’m Darryl. You didn’t see me on rhythm guitar?”

“Mmmm. Guess I did.”

“You didn’t really notice. That’s because I’m ugly, have no sex appeal, and women hate me. Agggg. Thanks so much.”

“Sorry. It’s just that there are so many of you.”

“And we keep switching around. I bet there are fifteen different Boucrees play different gigs, different times.” He flashed Skip a smile that could have lit the path if they’d been lost in the woods.

She found herself smiling back. Smiling and not being able to think of a thing to say, which meant her mind had been more on form than content. His form.

A bad sign, a very bad sign.
Cindy Lou, where are you?

“Maybe I should find my friend.”

“Oh, yeah. The bourbon and Diet Coke. There she is. That her?”

Skip scanned the crowd. “Where?”

“Over there. The one that looks real nice. Nothing like a bitch at all.” He gave her another of his dental extravaganzas.

“Ah. The one that’s waving.” Skip beckoned her over. “Cindy Lou Wootten, Darryl Boucree.”

They said they were glad to meet each other, and Skip outlined the plan—to join the band someplace quiet.

Cindy Lou waved a manicured hand. “Sure, sure. I’m up for anything. Let’s go wait out front.”

“I’ll meet you in a minute.” The cop in her had to make sure Melody went home.

They ended up at the bar at Snug Harbor—not the world’s quietest spot, but it beat The Blue Guitar. And, face it, Skip thought, there probably weren’t that many places where a crowd of five or six black guys and two women, one of them white, would be all that comfortable.

She had a lot to catch up on with Tyrone—mostly Melody’s career. Tyrone, as the father of her pal Joel, and also just a good, strong, earthy guy, was Melody’s idea of the ideal dad. She idolized him, and also fought with him, more or less as if he were her own dad, because she knew him about that well—he was her boss. Melody was the underage lead singer Tyrone had mentioned.

There were problems, with Melody being white and everyone else black, but both sides wanted to work them out.

“Best singer I ever saw,” Tyrone said. “Ever. Well, except maybe Etta James. You like Etta?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“But you know what about Melody? She’s got to quit coming to see us in bars. One of these days she’s gonna get in trouble.”

“I almost gave her some trouble tonight.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“But neither of us did, did we?”

“I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of her friends.”

“Me neither. Kids are hard, you know that?” She wanted to tell him about Sheila, but the story was so complicated—and at the moment so depressing—she didn’t feel like going into it.

Darryl came up behind Tyrone and leaned on his shoulder. “Don’t Bogart that lady, Tyrone. When do I get to talk to her?”

“Here, you want my stool? I got to go work out something with Louis. Why don’t you just talk to Ms. Skip a while? You might have met your match, Mr. Darryl. Go to it, now.” He walked off chuckling to himself.

Darryl looked disconcerted. “What’d he mean by that? You don’t look a whole lot like the Bride of Frankenstein.”

“Did anyone mention I’m a cop?”

“Holy shit, you’re kidding! A cop?”

“Homicide.” She tried to make her smile as dazzling as his.

“Whoa, boy.”

“What’s wrong? You a murderer?”

“No, man, I love cops. That’s what I always wanted to be… just one thing and another, it didn’t work out.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Well, the family frowned on it—after they sent me to Yale and all.”

“Yale! I thought Joel was the first Boucree—” She stopped, realizing she was blundering.

“What? Headed for a profession? Now one thing he is: he’s the first to go to one of your fancy white folks’ private high schools. Went to Fortier myself. And, unlike Joel, I actually wanted to be a musician. Also, I’m better at it than he is. But, see, I was good at other stuff too. So they gave me this scholarship and there was no stopping the Boucrees. They wanted their little black boy to go up to New Haven, Connecticut, and freeze his scrawny butt for four years.

“So I did it. I was a good boy. What I didn’t do, I didn’t do the rest of it.”

“You certainly don’t talk like a Yalie.”

“Jeez, don’t you hate the way they talk? It’s enough to make you lose your chitlins and greens. Excuse me; chitterlings and verdant vegetable matter. Anyway, I didn’t go on to better things—like law school or something.”

“So what’s your day job?”

“I’m back at Fortier—teaching English and creative writing, which turned out to be what I really liked. ’Course, you should hear me in the classroom—I still don’t talk like a Yalie, but I try not to drop my g’s. Those kids don’t know shit, you know that? Gotta set an example, however tiny. Anyway, when I was in high school I went to the cop lecture on career day.”

“When did the bartending come in?”

“Oh, well, I lied about that.”

“You weren’t a bartender?”

“No, I said I used to be one. Still am. You should try getting along on a schoolteacher’s salary. Besides, I like the variety.”

“Two jobs is murder, though. You have kids?” That, she thought, might be a reason for doing it. Surely that was it, she thought. But his answer was a clear challenge:

“Not married. You?”

She looked into her drink and shook her head, desperately trying to think of a way to change the subject. There was something high-octane about this guy, a kind of magnetic masculine energy she couldn’t help responding to. But for one thing, she was already involved; for another, she felt slightly squeamish about the uncharted territory of dating a black man.

Oh, for heaven’s sake
, she told herself.
He hasn’t asked you for a date. He’s just flirting.